


Thirteen Years

by tiikyo



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Explicit Language, F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 22:04:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiikyo/pseuds/tiikyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... it's been thirteen years since The Game, and you've pretty much merrily moved into the land of happily-ever-after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thirteen Years

**= = > Be Dave**

You are Dave Strider, and you are more positive than a goddamn plus-sign that you are too drunk to be standing. 

You are so positive, that if you were a pregnancy test… 

… well, there’s gotta be some sort of ironic joke about pregnancy tests somewhere in there, but you’re too drunk to try to even get it out there so it can fly away like some kind of strange bird that’s actually an ironic joke about pregnancy tests…

Really, you’re amazed that you’re still even on your feet. Only, you’re not because Striders don’t fall, and even if they do it’s because they want to, and they will do it _with swag_. You suppose Jade’s arms around your waist help a little, too, but only a little. After all, you’re a Strider, and Striders don’t fall, and even though you are _more positive than a pregnancy test that you are too drunk to be standing_ , you are equally positive that _you still got this_. It’s a very small climb up the stoop into your brownstone, and you’ve _spat_ farther distances than that.

Jade’s a champ, though. She’s still laughing even though she’s huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf (haha, ironic) trying to blow down one of the little pig’s houses — probably the one made out of sticks — while you both make the climb up the stairs. You’ll have to make it up to her for driving home from the New Year’s festivities when you’re a little more sober; she hates driving around the city at night.

The strappy, babydoll-pink shoes that she had insisted on wearing are now dangling from one of her wrists. A heel keeps poking you as she gives you a rough push up another step. You had tried to talk her out of wearing the damn things, because Jade has feet that are a little too long for any woman (“amazon feet” you call them, and she usually kicks you for it) and she would have had to work a small miracle in order to squeeze into them, much less wear them for more than two minutes. Somehow, though, and you’re still not quite sure how, she squeezed her feet into them anyway, and by some grace of the cosmic forces managed to make it through the entire New Year’s party, the after-party, and the _after-after-party_ without much a single complaint. The only reason why she isn’t wearing them now is because she had to drive home, which she couldn’t do while wearing them, and you couldn’t wait for her to put them on before getting out of the car.

Because even though you’re too drunk to walk up a set of stairs, Jade Harley still looks motherfucking _delicious_ in the glow of the lamp light at the foot of your stoop, and you just can’t wait to sink your teeth and fingers into her the moment the door is shut.

(You suppose you could do that before, but you also know that she might not appreciate giving the rest of the world a glimpse of what goes on behind the front door of Jade Harley and Dave Strider’s flat when the sun goes down. You kind of agree with her, too; the world will never be able to handle the awesomeness of it.)

You tell her this, how goddamn beautiful she is and all the things you want to do to her the moment you get through the door, and she gives you another shove onto the last step.

“As much as I appreciate that, Dave, I don’t think the neighbors would take too kindly to you waking them up at three in the morning!” she sounds flustered, but she’s still laughing. Her hands are on your hips as she leans you against the wrought-iron railing; you try to return the gesture, and she paps your hand for it. “Stop that. And don’t go anywhere, I need to unlock the door.”

You swear you’re not pouting as she turns around and uses your key to unlock the front door. Her key is still in the clutch-purse that she made you hold when she had to take her shoes off to drive, and you’re pretty sure that it is now in the backseat of your car. Hopefully, you’ll remember to get it out tomorrow.

She unlocks the door and pushes it open. It swings a little too fast and hits the adjacent wall before bouncing back and slamming shut again. The hinge is too loose, or maybe you just put too much oil on it when it started squeaking loud enough to wake the goddamn dead anytime someone opened or closed the door. Either way, the door now makes a habit of nearly putting a hole in the wall every time someone uses it, and you make a mental note that you should probably put a jam on the wall at some point when you’re not so damn drunk.

“Damn it!” it’s cute in an ironic way when Jade curses, like it shouldn’t be there because the words are usually too vulgar and she always looks so innocent; it can’t be any more perfect than that. 

It makes you laugh, and you have to clench your fingers around the railing to keep from toppling backward over it. That would have been undeniably uncool; but, she didn’t see it, so you think you’re safe.

Jade wrestles with the door once again, making sure to open it slowly, and when it doesn’t swing back to close a second time, she turns around to face you.

“Okay, there. Are you coming or not?”

 _Hell fucking yes you are_ , but only after you take a second to take in how she looks right now, with her long dark hair in a wavy mess around her face, shimmery green dress a little wrinkled, shoes dangling from her wrist, and glasses nearly about to fall off of her nose. You wish you had your camera, because she’s very appealing when she’s disheveled like that, but you’re pretty sure you also forgot it in the backseat of the car along with her purse. You don’t tell her that, though, because that makes you sound like a rambling drunk. 

And stupidly sentimental.

She holds a hand over her mouth and giggles, “Well come on, then! You shouldn’t need my help walking through the front door.”

 _Hell no you don’t need her help walking through the front door_. With a lurch off of the railing you stumble (you meant to do that, you _swear_ ) after her into the foyer. She hesitates right in front of the mirror that Rose had insisted on buying as some sort of ironic form of self-indulgent decoration for your new pad when you moved to New York. It’s old, something just as classy as your sister’s choice in weird literature, but it actually looks pretty good hanging above the little marble-top table where Jade keeps the mail and the bowl for her keys and spare change. You know she’s hesitating because she’s making sure that you aren’t stumbling over your own two feet, and you give her a grin to reassure her that you’re okay.

 _You still got this_. See? You’ll even kick the door shut —

— it slams loudly, and she grimaces. One of the neighbors is definitely going to have words in the morning. Whoops. —

— without falling over.

See? Look at that. No hands.

She’s laughing, though, and adjusting her glasses back onto her nose, “Are you even going to be able to get up the stairs? I think you might have to sleep on the couch tonight.” 

Who gives a flying shit about where you’re going to sleep? Because you sure as hell don’t. Who even cares about sleep when you’ve got way better things to do with your time, anyway? This is the whole of what you want to say as you cross the foyer in two strides (haha, _strides_ ), but your brain fumbles somewhere between that, and catching her against that table, so that all that comes out of your mouth is something that can’t constitute as anything in any human language before you’re pressing it to hers. 

It’s time to get this party started. You’re doing it, yes, _you’re doing it_.

The table scrapes against the hardwood floor. In the back of your mind, you think about how it’s probably going to scratch the finish, and then you laugh to yourself (and against her lips) because it’s pointless to think about that when you have already had to replace the shower rod, and one of the windows in the bedroom.

What can you say? _You’re just that good._

She squeaks about being careful to not scratch the floor in a way that sounds like she doesn’t really care at all, because at that same moment she’s dropping her shoes with a loud clunk onto that goddamn floor and catching your face between her hands. Her fingers are cool and they feel like heaven, and the only thing you want to do is lift her up onto the table and take her right there.

Jade won’t have any of that, though.

“D-Dave,” hmm? “Dave. I don’t want to have to explain why we have to replace the foyer table.”

She’s right, and you know she’s right. _Shit_.

You mumble something against her lips, although for the life of you you will never be able to remember what it was you said. It doesn’t sound like she was really listening to you anyway, and that’s okay. You lean your forehead against her shoulder. She smells like lilies. Not that you know what the _fuck_ lilies actually smell like; you only know this because that’s what’s written on the bottle of lotion that she keeps beside the bed. But if this is what they smell like, then they smell _fucking amazing_ , and you make a mental note to buy a dozen lilies for her sometime. She’ll probably like them in the kitchen.

You kiss her neck. You taste her skin. You breathe her in once more as you pinch the zipper of her dress between your thumb and forefinger and deftly work it down until your knuckles hit the table behind her and can’t go down any further. She presses little kisses against your ear. They make too-loud smacking sounds that you would otherwise find annoying if she didn’t suddenly change her game plan and nibble lightly on the lobe. Her breath is hot. It makes your skin tight and prickly and it’s getting harder and harder to remember how to stand.

 _Right_ , because you’re too drunk to be standing. If you weren’t pretty positive about that before, you are _definitely_ positive about it now. Jade pushes off of the table and holds you at arms’ length. You have to think very carefully about how to move your feet backward without falling as she smooths her hands over the fucking _dapper_ shirt you’re wearing and untucks it from your pants.

You doubt you’re going up the stairs anytime soon, you mutter. She giggles, takes your hips again, and says she knows — that’s why she’s taking you into the den instead. 

“You need to sleep.”

You don’t want to sleep. You want _her_. 

She guides you into the den. You nearly trip over the fancy-as-shit shag rug in the middle of the floor, so you cleverly disguise it as a purposeful fall onto the closest loveseat.

Nice save, Strider. Bra- _fucking_ -vo.

That’s how you get her to succumb to your charm, you guess, because the moment your back hits the lumpy thing, Jade Harley is _going to town_. The party is really getting started now, and she’s just cranked up the bass. You’re slipping her out of her dress one arm at a time, and she’s not even bothering to finish taking your belt out of its loops before she’s unbuttoning and unzipping your pants and tugging them down to your knees.

The cool air hits, and you take in a sharp breath that makes your lungs burn and your stomach knot.

_Didn’t she just get done yapping on about how you needed to sleep?_

— thankfully, this is the one time you remember not open your goddamn mouth to ask her that, because she’s sitting right on top of you and twisting and squirming out of a pair of pink panties (to match her shoes!) and draping them on the back of the loveseat as if that’s the most normal thing in the world. Rose is supposed to visit tomorrow; hopefully one of the two of you will remember to move them before then.

(And well, if that doesn’t end up happening, at least you’ll have _something_ to brag about. Because you’re quite sure your sister’s sex life isn’t as _motherfucking amazing_ as this is.)

(Wait, why are you even thinking about your sister’s sex life? _Nasty, dude, nasty_.)

Jade’s hair is a dark curtain around her face. It gets everywhere as she comes down to kiss you, and once or twice she has to toss her head back and blow a raspberry into the air to get it out of her mouth. The force of it sends her dress peeling downward and bunching around her hips in a pile of shimmery green, and the light plays off of her body — every peak, every curve — like a goddamn lullaby coming from a piano.

It’s so _fucking beautiful_ that it makes your chest ache.

She’s getting more than a little frustrated with her hair as she scrambles to gather it all over one of her shoulders to get it out of the way. You chuckle at her obvious exasperation, because it’s so _fucking adorable_ , and skim your hands along the inside of her thighs. Her spine suddenly goes very straight and she clamps down against your touch with a sudden gasp.

She forgets that she’s supposed to be holding her hair over her shoulder, because now her hands are braced upon your chest and she’s threatening to tear through your shirt and sink her nails into your skin, and you can’t and won’t do a goddamn thing to stop it.

Because it’s so _fucking breathtaking_ , and when she squeaks your name you are pretty sure you can die right now, and you would die a happy guy.

Her legs relax, and so you touch her. First with the pad of your thumb, and then the tip of your finger. She’s hot and slick, and this time when she tosses her head back, it isn’t to get the hair out of her face… it’s to _moan your name_ and it is honestly, _unironically_ , the _hottest fucking sound_ that you’ve ever heard in your entire life. It sends your blood boiling through your veins, and all the air out of your lungs in one giant _rush_.

You watch her as she grinds against your hand, head thrown back, fingers clenching almost painfully into your chest. She’s making the most beautiful sounds you can ever remember hearing, and if you were any more sober it would almost make you _ache_ , for how wonderful it is and how fleeting it will be.

“D- _Dave_ —” There’s a stress on the ‘v’, so it sounds more like D-a-v-v-v-v-v-e! and you curl your finger inside her so that she makes another one of those squeaks. “You — ugh —”

You love it when she can’t remember what she was going to say, especially in moments like this. She rolls against your fingers until you both can’t take it, and suddenly she’s snatching your wrist with one hand and using the other to take you in and 

suddenly

you

can’t

_think_

for how _hot_ it is, how _tight_ it is, and how _motherfucking beautiful_ everything is in the world.

(You are still, however, vaguely aware of how restricting your pants are, being bunched at your knees, and of how she had not given you a chance to lick her taste off of your fingers like you would have liked to before she started riding you like a _motherfucking rodeo_.)

She leans forward — hands scrabbling for balance, body rippling against yours, hair falling back into her face — and when she tosses her head back you get a face full of hair and the scent of apple blossom shampoo.

It smells like _fucking heaven_.

Your hands play her skin like they play your tables. Turn up the _bass_ , turn up the _heat_.

Feel that _rhythm…_

_Feel that beat…_

And you feel it. Oh _God_ , do you feel it. 

She makes a little sound like a hiccup, and you know it’s the right one, because that’s the sound she makes when she’s close. (And she’s close, _so close_ , you can feel it.) She holds her breath, squeezes her eyes shut, and brings the whole world down to this one infinitesimal moment, thin as a wire, as she bears down on you like an anchor that’s set to drown you at the bottom of the sea.

And in that moment, the only thing you can hear is the ticking of the old grandfather clock in the foyer. 

Tick, _tock_ , tick, _tock_ …

She’s turning you inside out.

Rise, _fall_ , rise, _fall_ …

And you are so, so okay with that.

You feel your lips form around words between your panting and gasping — how she’s fucking beautiful, _so fucking beautiful_ , and how you love her, and how you think it would be pretty awesome if you could marry her _like tomorrow_ — and she catches you in a tight, tight warmth as she lunges forward and rains the most frantic kisses over your face.

It unwinds you. It _unravels you completely_ , and you find yourself scrabbling for her, surging up and clutching her tight to you as you whimper her name over and over against her neck. She holds onto you, arms coming around your shoulders as the both of you come down from the highest high, until your spine feels like jelly and you want nothing more to lay back down.

You bring her with you, not even caring that you’re still inside her, or that you’re still wearing pretty much all your clothes, or that she’s still wearing only half a dress. You could fall asleep right now, and none of it would ever matter because it’s a brand new year, and you’re surrounded by her, and by the smell of lilies, sex, and appleblossoms.

Belly-to-belly like this, you can feel it when she suddenly giggles. You stroke your fingers along her spine, and stare up at the shadows playing across the ceiling.

“Did you really just ask me to marry you?”

(Holy _shit_. You did, didn’t you? What the ever-loving fuck were you thinking, Strider.)

Yeah, you say. And then you chuckle, because you don’t want her to know just how _terrified_ that thought makes you. Jade doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and you think that she might not have heard you.

What does she think of the idea?

She tugs the blanket off of the back of the couch, uncaring that it sends those little pink panties to the floor, and brings it over you both. The warmth of it makes everything hazy in a world that’s already pretty hazy from still being too drunk to stand.

“I think…” she settles into the crook of your neck, and you don’t have it in you right now to protest that you would like to take your pants off. Or, at the very least, your shoes. “I think that question is pretty invalid, considering how much you’ve had to drink tonight. Ask me again tomorrow… er, later today.”

That makes you laugh.

Because that means that everything, right now, is perfect in the world.

And even you can appreciate that irony.


End file.
